


The Wounds That Never Heal

by WytchDr



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, No Safeword, Platonic BDSM, Platonic Relationships, Unconventional Coping Mechanisms, Whipping, don't be Thorin, no matter how hard you squint there's really nothing going on between these two, nonsexual bdsm, please use a safeword
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 07:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9112852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WytchDr/pseuds/WytchDr
Summary: Thorin is one of the worst about neglecting his own wounds. When he is not working to secure the future of his people- forging trade agreements, negotiating alliances, securing the frail borders of their new homeland- there is more than enough work to be done to simply put food on the table for his own kin. Time to reflect, time to mourn- these are not things that Thorin has scheduled into his days.But, like all wounds, they must be cared for and cleaned. If that means that they must be reopened no one casts their judgment, or at least they wouldn’t if they knew.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd. If you find a stupid let me know. Enjoy!

The grief grows old after a time. The memories fade and, sometimes, Thorin begins to wonder if his memories are no more than a replay of the stories he has told so many times, if they were ever real at all. He wonders if the pain ever was as bright as he tells it. No one questions the stories, for all those who were there tell the same ones, and Thorin knows that he cannot be wrong, but he cannot help but feel as if his life was lived by someone else, as if his memories are not his own, as if he has never lived at all but for the dull and empty ache in his soul. 

When his eyes dim and he grows yet more withdrawn Dwalin knows. He knows, as do all the survivors, that the wounds never really heal. After some time, neglected and left to fester, the fever of infection clouds the mind. 

And Thorin is one of the worst about neglecting his own wounds. When he is not working to secure the future of his people- forging trade agreements, negotiating alliances, securing the frail borders of their new homeland- there is more than enough work to be done to simply put food on the table for his own kin. Time to reflect, time to mourn- these are not things that Thorin has scheduled into his days.

But, like all wounds, they must be cared for and cleaned. If that means that they must be reopened no one casts their judgment, or at least they wouldn’t if they knew. 

Cleansing his soul, his wounds, was not always like this. Most of the survivors indulged in too much ale or visited the towns of men where they traded what little they had for the knowledge of the women there, but Thorin took neither such luxury. When Thorin’s attitude grew ever more sour he and Dwalin often came to blows over the matter and, for a time, it seemed sufficient. But a king, even one in exile, cannot have so little control as to indulge in a simple violence, even one he brings upon himself. 

Thorin’s knuckles blanch as he gropes at the wall and he steadies himself before the next blow falls. His unbraided hair falls over his shoulders and shrouds his head which hangs towards the wall. Already the strap is leaving faint red weals in its wake. It takes much determination to mark the skin of a dwarf but Dwalin is lacking in neither strength nor skill. 

After a time Thorin falters, fighting himself to stay put for the next blow when his mind screams to escape. His breath comes quickly and the sweat pours down his body, drips off of his nose and bent elbows to the ground where the drops mix with the dirt of the barn floor. Dwalin lowers the strap and moves forward pressing Thorin to the wall again. The worn leather cuffs hang ready above Thorin’s shoulders and Dwalin lets his cousin lean back against his body as he gently tightens the restraints. Dwalin knows it would make sense to restrain Thorin from the outset but he also knows that Thorin must first have his pride stripped from his flesh before he would accept what he sees as assistance.

Thorin sags against his bonds momentarily as Dwalin steps away, his support gone, but he quickly rights himself, gripping the chains. Dwalin resumes the strikes and Thorin’s body shakes with the strain of enduring. They both know that before the end Thorin would fight, he had the first few times they did this, but the bonds now take away his choice to do so. 

When Thorin wrenches the chains with each lash Dwalin knows that his cousin is wearing down. As always the refugee king will resist struggle as long as he can, as long as he has the strength to, if only to appease his own stubbornness. 

Eventually the fight and anger with which Thorin grips the chains turns to desperation. He no longer holds on only to steady his body but also his mind. The pain is bright and blinding in its intensity. Each time they do this Thorin wonders to himself if anything has ever burned with the same savage pain as this and each time he knows that one thing has, one thing that will ever be more painful that this. He is overwhelmed with the sensation and, finally, with the emotion and memory. Thorin wants it to stop, he wants to escape the bright white intensity of the lash, but the call to end it is in Dwalin’s hands and even if it were not Thorin would never ask. Dwarves do not beg. Dwarves do not ask for mercy.

It is finally over when Dwalin sees him sag, sees his shoulders wracked with silent sobs, hears the grunts turn to whimpers. It is then that Dwalin knows the pain has finally overwhelmed Thorin and that they have finished what they set out to do.

Slowly, so as not to alarm Thorin, Dwalin lets fall the strap, the sound Thorin’s only warning before Dwalin presses his body against Thorin’s and reaches to loose the cuffs. The pain must be overwhelming he knows, even more so as the rough fabric of his tunic rubs against the dark red skin of Thorin’s back. Even so, Thorin presses into the warmth of the person behind him, eager and desperate for something, someone, solid enough to right his world that drifts unmoored in a sea of memory and heartache. 

Thorin’s arms sag, the ache in his shoulders obvious, and gently Dwalin turns Thorin to face him. Tears run in unbroken streams down his cheeks. His shoulders continue to shake and slowly they sink to the ground where Thorin cries, unabashedly, on the shoulder of one of his oldest shieldbrothers.

**Author's Note:**

> I've heard this referred to as therapeutic spanking or a courtesy spanking/whipping in the kink community. It's a thing.
> 
> What's not a thing is letting someone else decide when you are done while not having a safeword. Just don't. We are not dwarves. We have human skin that would very likely not withstand something this brutal or drawn out without splitting. Please take care.
> 
> Also, I would love feedback! Thank you all for reading.


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